


The Mirror of Belegost.

by hennethgalad



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 11:38:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14104545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: Eowyn visits the Museum of Middle-Earth in Minas Tirith, after the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen, where she meets Galadriel.for the Silmarillion Writers Guild 'Museum of Middle Earth'.





	The Mirror of Belegost.

 

                          The Mirror of Belegost.

 

   Eowyn hastened up the stone steps that cut across the face of Mindolluin, scarcely glancing back down at the spires of Minas Tirith, eager for space, and air, and silence, after the endless roar of the celebrations. Her heart had achieved a measure of acceptance, and she admired the grace and beauty of Arwen beyond words. But her worship, rather than love, she ruefully admitted to herself, of Aragorn, had faded to a love more like to that she had shared with kindly Theoden. And of course, she reassured herself, she loved Faramir as a woman loves a man, for his courage, wisdom, compassion, and, she smiled to herself, his beauty. The turmoil in her heart had been easing, she had begun, finally, to view the future with more than hope, with joy.

   Until the Elves had come, riding in their shimmering light, casting a spell of enchantment on all who saw them. She felt sure that even were their faces masked, the beauty that shone forth from them came from within, and that the dazzling perfection of their features was as a garnish to the feast.  
   But the spell had struck her with the force of a thunderbolt, or a fall of great rocks, and her thoughts had shied in horror from her own heart, and in desperation she had fled up the path out of the city, recalling in dismay her blushes, and cursing the frailty of her fickle heart.

   Glorfindel had sought her out. Many times she had been told of his prophesy; that not by the hand of man would the Witch King fall. Endless toasts had been drunk to her glory before ever the Elves had arrived, and Glorfindel had stood before her, dazzling all with his radiance, and his brilliant smile.  
   She had been more frightened than on the Pelennor field; the Light more powerful than the sucking abyss of Darkness, seeming to scour through her like the autumn wind through the grass. She had been unable to speak, but the kindly Elf had nodded, and patted her shoulder, and his smile had seemed to fade for a moment, until a still silence spread around them.

   "I too have seen the Darkness, my lady Eowyn, but the flame is imperishable, and shall never be quenched. Do not fear, the Shadow has passed, rejoice in the light of Sun and Stars ! "  
Eowyn struggled to smile, but her awe at his beauty and power seemed to have frozen her like a startled hare. He leaned forwards and kissed her forehead, and whispered softly.  
   "Rest, dear child, your dream of glory is accomplished. Who now can outshine you ? Take up your life with noble Faramir, and bring laughter and song to fair Ithilien."  
   The shieldmaiden of Rohan, who had feasted with the heir of Thranduil, yet stood enthralled before the blinding radiance of Twice-Born Glorfindel. It was beyond the accounting of even the wisest of the Eldar; Glorfindel, bane of the Balrog, returned, so the songs told, from the Undying Lands of the Elves, after being slain in battle in times so long before that the very shapes of land and sea had changed. Aragorn himself seemed in awe of Glorfindel, though he joked and laughed with the golden-haired Elf. The golden hair ! They had told her that his name was Elven for 'glorious hair', and indeed his flowing locks made even the famed golden hair of the Rohirrim seem pale, or yellow, or dusty. There could be no mistaking anyone else for Glorfindel.

   But Eowyn had faced in battle the Lord of the Nazgul; here was an Elf, who meant her no harm.  
   "My lord, you saw his doom long long ago. It was not I, but the hand of fate which struck him down."  
Glorfindel smiled, his eyes, she noticed, were blue, bright blue.  
   "My lady, such modesty becomes the valiant as the perfume of the flower. But without the valour, and the courage to wield a sword, the Music will pass by, unheard." He bowed his head and frowned for a moment, and Eowyn, as though released for a moment from his spell, felt the attentive silence in the stillness of those around them.

   The tears burned her eyes, she felt a sympathy and understanding from Glorfindel, for both had faced, and defeated, foes who far outmatched them, and yet they stood in the Hall of Minas Tirith, in the long beams of sunlight, surrounded by richly clad Elves and Mortals, alive and well. But she felt from him a little of the terrible price that the foe had carved from his spirit, as hers had been darkened. She knew then that her senses had been sharpened; scoured raw, drawn tight in the struggle of will that it had taken to raise her sword in defiance, and to use it on the Wraithlord. She seemed to see the Light within Glorfindel as through a thin veil; his flesh, his very bones were rendered clear as water, and when she looked again into his eyes, the jewel blue melted into the silver-gold glow of the Light.  
   But the memory of pain was there, a high, piercing note in the Music, that she seemed to hear, and she realised that his hand rested still on her shoulder, and understood that he was sharing some of himself with her, as one warrior to another, to aid her in the healing of her own small, Mortal spirit.

   She sighed heavily, and nodded.  
   "I thank you, Lord Glorfindel Golden Flower, your words of praise mean more to me than a thousand songs by one who did not... does not... cannot..."  
Glorfindel smiled slowly, and nodded. "But we know, my lady, we understand. And this I tell you, that though my voice is not the finest, I shall learn to sing in a manner worthy of your valour, and your beauty. Words of praise for you shall be sung by me, in Valinor, nay, upon Taniquetil itself. Before the face of Manwë and the Lady Elbereth I shall sing of your glory, a thousand times and more."

 

   As the stone steps turned at the shoulder of Mindolluin, the Summer Palace came into view, on the curved shelf of the South-facing slope. Long empty, it had served as a welcome respite from the heat of the summer for the courtiers of old, and with the return of Aragorn, the Palace had been restored.  
   But Arwen had been sent many gifts, from all the many folk of the West of Middle-Earth, as much in grateful tribute as in honour of the wedding. The king and queen had sought counsel, and the Summer Palace had become a Museum, in which the many tokens and keepsakes, each one an heirloom of a great house, could be shown forth for the enrichment of all. Crafters of all kinds thronged to inspect the designs, the fabrics, the colours, and the skill.  
   Eomer had sent for the armour of Eorl, with the golden sun in the chest-piece, and the tall plume on the gleaming helm. Gandalf had smiled at her, a wise look in his laughing eyes.  
   "Eorl would be pleased to have made his way here at last" he said "For Eorl loved the white city, and the culture and craft of the people of Minas Tirith. If duty to his folk had not taken him back to Calenardhon, then here he would have stayed."  
  Eowyn had looked at Gandalf in astonishment, his words seemed almost treason to her, but Gandalf had smiled more broadly "But Eorl did not forget his duty, nor his people, and his love for this place made the Rohirrim view Gondor ever with favour, through all the long years."

 

 

   The Summer Palace soared over her, graceful and airy, with high arches of the white stone of Gondor, many tall windows, and a high roof of sparkling, pale-grey slate which seemed to float above the structure, shining in the morning sun. The heights of Mindolluin were wreathed in cloud, but below the clouds the snow, reaching almost down to the Palace even in summer, glowed in the early light.  
   Eowyn found herself laughing, for riding the length of the White Mountains had been her dream since first she had understood that they did not mark the edge of the world. She remembered the delighted cry with which Theoden had greeted the first sight of Mindolluin, breaking the silence of the Stonewain Valley; and the quiet cheering of the Rohirrim, knowing that their long ride was nearing its end. Her heart had leaped for joy, and the hobbit, full of eager questions, had begged her to tell him all she knew of Gondor, freely admitting that as the great City of Men drew near, he feared ally as much as foe.

   She smiled, Aragorn alone was impressive enough, and the city was filled with such warriors, tall and dark haired, like her own beloved Faramir. To a halfling, the people of Minas Tirith must seem like courtly giants. Yet still, away from hunt and field of battle, wherever the laughter was loudest, a hobbit could generally be found, whether in person, or under discussion. And very little of the laughter was mocking, though Men were Men, even in Gondor, and there were those who would not, or could not believe the deeds of Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, and muttered sourly of Elvish enchantments.  
Eowyn shook her head. For those who would look, the horror was plain to see in the grey eyes of poor Frodo, and even Samwise, when not laughing, had a haunted expression that made even Eowyn, in her darkest moments, feel a terrible, helpless pity. It was the fact that this bane of Shelob, this hardened traveller, this hero, could ever have been such a humble person as a gardener, that Eowyn found hard to believe.

 

   Eowyn fought with her own eyes, and succeeded in not turning to look down at the towers of Minas Tirith. She had fled her own heart before her face betrayed her faithlessness. For how could any woman even see Faramir beside the glorious radiance of Glorfindel. She knew that there was no hope, that what she felt was not love, but a kind of adoration. She knew that beyond his praise lay nothing, for to him she was but a swift bird in flight, that circles once and passes away. The Elf may point, and exclaim with joy at beauty and grace, but the bird will fly.  
   She could feel the understanding growing within her, she could feel the strange kindness of the Elves, hiding away in forest or deep valley, for the sake of the hearts of those like herself, and Aragorn, who would love them and despair. Aragorn had not despaired, but she must, and she gritted her teeth and climbed the low white steps of the Museum.

  
   The morning sunlight lay across the room, casting long shadows, making the many wedding gifts gleam, and glow, shimmer and shine. For the treasures that had flowed into Gondor were more than mere gifts to a king and his bride, they were the trophies of victory, joyful praise for the final defeat of the Enemy. Eowyn was staggered at the splendour, it was as she imagined a dragon-hoard.  
   Suits of armour, from the plain leather of the Elves of Rhovanion to the golden glory of Glorfindel, lined the walls, echoing the statues in the Hall below. The plinths and tables were laden with neat labels, in the Common Tongue, and in the Sindar spoken even by the Men of Minas Tirith. Each chest of sparkling gems, each goblet, each delicate lantern, exquisite toy and musical instrument had beside it the tale of its making, and the name of the sender.

   Eowyn lost herself in wonder, admiring an inlaid spinning-wheel from Rhûn, a flower-carved chair from The Grey Havens, flutes, harps and drums from the Iron Hills. There were bright bolts of cloth, carried by unknown merchants far from the East where patient hands, more patient than her own, had carefully woven them. There were formal robes, bright with jewels and rich embroidery, and long, lavish cloaks with carefully draped trains; there were rows of crystal goblets, twinkling with rainbows in the sun, and curved horns on silver stands, for drinking, or for light, or for their glorious music.

   The weapons drew her eyes, and she tested the draw on a mighty bow from the Golden Wood, and shook her head. The Elves were so slight and graceful, it was all too easy to underestimate their strength, and even those who had seen the Elves in battle spoke of their disbelief that anything alive could move so swiftly. Eowyn laid down the bow carefully, and drew a sword, a gift from Dain of Erebor, a marvellous piece, with a great diamond set in the pommel, and a hilt of pearl and silver. The blade itself, seeming too light in the hand to deal cuts, much less death, was forged of mithril, scarcest of metals, carved with flowing runes, with silver stars that...  
   Eowyn frowned and glanced up at the tall arches of the windows; the sun was veiled, the clouds covered the Summer Palace, her eyes looked out only into the grey mist, and the beautiful gleaming treasures were dulled into the semblance of daily things.  
She sighed, and looked around the room, seeking something to restore her mood of cheer. Her eyes fell on the golden armour of Glorfindel, and her heart seemed to stop. It was of other kind than that of most Elves; not leaf-like, not formed of layers which slid past each other for ease of movement. The armour of Glorfindel was forged of solid plate, akin to the fine steel of the Men of Gondor. But above the steel, as though in challenge, to catch and hold the eye of the foe, and draw them to him, the whole was covered in bright rich gold, golden as his glorious hair. And set in the centre of the breastplate, in white gold, the golden flower after which his House was named.  
   Eowyn stretched out a tentative hand towards the armour, but clenched her fist before she touched the shining gold, and turned away.

 

   At the far end of the Palace on the long feast-table, the choicest gifts, from the Nine Companions and from the kinfolk of Aragorn and Arwen, were set in pride of place. Eowyn shook her head at the golden collars, fashioned from myriad plaits of golden wire, plaited into the likenesses of honeysuckle vines, that she herself had given. Here beside the treasures of Elvendom, the finest crafts of the Mark seemed crude and clumsy.  
   As she walked the length of the table, she was surprised to see a small spray of willow leaves, freshly picked, resting on a dish of mithril the width of her outstretched hand. She idly picked up the willow, and dropped it in startled surprise.  
   The prize of the whole hoard, the willow leaves were carved from clouded beryl, the green stones, hard as diamond, so beloved by the Elves. They were set on a stem of solid red gold, its surface roughened by the smith to so resemble the soft wood of the willow that she almost forgave her own folly. But when she lifted the sprig of willow leaves, she found that the mithril dish was a part of the whole, and when she turned it and saw her own face, she started anew. For the precious gift was a mirror of great beauty, the loveliest she had ever seen, and she laughed, freed from her anger and despair by the awe that the cunning crafts of the Elves inspired in all.

 

   Behind her, through the open doors, a fair voice sang in the mist. She had heard the voice before, Arwen perhaps...  
   A golden glow lit up the cloud, Eowyn wondered if the sun was breaking through. But the singing drew nearer, and tall and stately, clad in finely-embroidered white, casting a glow of light about her, came Galadriel.

   Eowyn smiled, but felt a kind of childish guilt, as though she had been caught in truancy. But Galadriel lifted her hand in greeting and laughed.  
   "I did not take you for one who cared for such stuff, my lady Eowyn, I had thought that you would be riding afield, now that you are released by fate from the duties of nursemaid."  
Eowyn blushed, but Galadriel had crossed the long hall at Elven speed, and laid a gentle hand on her arm. "Nay, I do not mock you. For however dearly we love those we must tend, yet still the spirit chafes to be up and doing, not forced to wait, biting down impatient words, on those whom pain has made short-tempered."

   The serene eyes of the Elf looked into the troubled eyes of the Mortal, and Galadriel smiled again, and looked down at the mirror in the hand of Eowyn.  
  "Shall I tell you of my folly when first I saw that mirror ?"  
Eowyn looked doubtful "But my lady, I cannot believe that you were ever foolish !"  
Galadriel smiled dryly "All who live are prone to error and folly. Even Manwë himself mistook the pleas of the Enemy for earnest goodwill.  
  But I too have erred, and been foolish. Indeed, when first I saw that mirror, on the table of Lúthien, I took it for the leaves of a living tree."  
Eowyn exclaimed in astonishment "Why, I too believed in the work of the jeweller, I thought that I would drop the mirror, I was so surprised."  
   "I did drop the mirror. Fortunately Lúthien had anticipated me, and caught it easily." Galadriel slowly shook her head, and the clouds thinned, and a nacreous light shone through the long windows.  
  
   For a moment, the world of Gondor and The Mark was gone, and Eowyn saw, or felt, with the awareness of the Elf beside her, the beauty and splendour of the Undying Lands. A lightness of spirit, of heart, seemed to open her mind and her eyes, until she felt herself clear as glass, through which the Light flowed, rippling with Music, flowing with time; a note in the song, a raindrop in a summertime shower.

   But Galadriel spoke again.  
   "Do you know of Belegost ?"  
   "I... Alas, my lady, few indeeed of the songs of your people have come to the Rohirrim. Few even are the songs of Gondor yet sung in Meduseld. I think that Belegost must have been a very great city or realm of the Elves ?"  
  Galadriel smiled and laughed softly on an indrawn breath. "Alas no, the fairest piece of craft here, in my view, is this mirror, the Mirror of Belegost, and it was carved in the First Age of the world, by the unmatched skill of a Dwarf of Belegost. Her artistry is unsurpassed, and the Mirror is nigh as old as the Sun herself."  
  Eowyn started, and carefully replaced the Mirror on the table. "This was the mirror of Lúthien? Even I have heard songs in her praise. Yet she is your kin, and you knew her, who to me is a legend from before the count of time began."  
   Galadriel nodded slowly. "Three ages of the world have passed since first the smith set chisel to stone, who carved this piece. I would tell you her name, but you could not pronounce it, and the Dwarves are jealous even of their words. It may be that in secret caves, the mightiest of the Dwarven smiths gather to sing her name and teach her secrets to their apprentices. But if so, there has been nothing crafted since to match the wonder of this mirror."  
   "I... I would hear you speak of the lady Lúthien, if it please you, and henceforth, when her praise is sung, I may remember this mirror, and she shall live on, in mind, and, it may be, in spirit."

   Galadriel smiled "Alas for the Elves, forsaken by Lúthien ! It is as if the heart should reject the body. For in her, the child of the Maia, we Elves came closest, we felt, to the vision of Eru. But Glorfindel..." she paused, and Eowyn saw suddenly, in the briefest flicker of colour on the cheeks of the serene Elf, a hint that she was not alone in hopeless love for the beautiful Glorfindel. The notion that such a one as Galadriel could need pity shocked her, until she recalled the tale of the dread fate of Celebrian her daughter. Eowyn bowed her head, stunned anew at the terrible age of these Elves, older than the sun and moon, who looked to her no older than she herself, and younger far than Theoden, or even Aragorn. "Glorfindel, the only one of us to have returned from the Undying Lands, affirms the thoughts of the Valar. The Eldar, the Edain and all Mortal beings, are the Children of Eru Ilúvatar, and dearer to his heart than all of Arda."  
   Eowyn gazed up at Galadriel in awe. The eyes of the Elf seemed to see through the walls of the Museum, through the walls of the world, past the stars and out into the Void, where Eru sang, alone. It was shocking, she felt her mind falling, into the endless darkness, and put out a hand to steady herself on the table.

 

   The sound of a high voice singing an unfamiliar, earthy song, floated up through the thinning golden mist, and Galadriel smiled.  
   "Samwise the Brave approaches."  
   Eowyn was delighted, her friendship with Meriadoc was very dear to her, and they had spent many happy hours, speaking of Theoden. Eowyn had listened with a wistful smile as Merry had told her his stories of The Shire, for she knew that he had longed to share his tales and songs with Theoden himself, for whom she grieved.  
   But Samwise Gamgee appeared through the mist, climbing the steps with his head down, breathing heavily, his song beginning to falter. Galadriel turned away from the doors and spoke softly.  
   "Those who dared to walk beneath the Eye, into the darkness of Mordor, are weakened, in body and spirit. I would have you remember them, and offer what help you may, for though Samwise is young, and strong, even he..."  
   Samwise had seen them, his startled gasp had them turn towards him with smiles.  
  
   "Oh ! My lady Galadriel !" he bowed low, then turned to Eowyn "My lady Eowyn ! I... Pardon my interrupting you ! I... it was... They sent me to study the golden harp."  
Galadriel smiled, but Eowyn could see her lips pressed together, and the clenching of the fine jaw.  
   "The gilded harp... Yes. It was made by my brother Finrod, in the caverns of Nargothrond. It was sent to me on his death, by Orodreth, another of my brothers. It is the only thing I have" she paused "The only thing I had which once belonged to dear Finrod. Indeed, the ring of Barahir, which Aragorn bears yet, is the only other such thing in all of Middle-earth, that once belonged to Finrod." She smiled sadly "He had such charm that all who knew him loved him, Elves, Dwarves, Men..." she glanced at Eowyn with slightly narrowed eyes, a knowing look, that stayed long in the memory of Eowyn.  
   But Galadriel turned to the gaping Samwise. "Please, have no fear, for though the harp is ancient, it has in it something of the spirit, the Magic, if you will, of my brother, and will outlast you, and your children, and your children’s children. He wove the strings with Ithildin, and the fibres of the Mallorn tree, and..." she hesitated, then ran a hand over the strings, creating a gentle ripple of music that filled the hall as a whisper in silence. "And his own hair."

   Eowyn was astonished; in Minas Tirith she had heard many songs of Finrod Felagund, from Elves and Men and Dwarves. Gimli son of Gloin had sung the Song of the Naming, telling of how the Dwarves had bestowed the title "Hewer of Caves" upon Finrod, the only one not of their kind to be so honoured.  
   That a part of Finrod himself, his own hair, should survive, that from the deeps of time a fragment had remained of such a mythical figure of legend... She realised with a start that Galadriel herself had been there, had seen the harp played by he who crafted it, and lived yet to tell the tale. It was too much.  
   

   She turned away again, troubled anew by the utter strangeness of the Elves, and the utter fleetingness of the brief lives of Mortals. Samwise had closed his mouth, but his round eyes stared first at Galadriel, then at the harp.  
   "My lady, I dare not touch it, though I do not doubt your words. But what a mighty gift to leave behind !"  
Galadriel laughed then, and the two Mortals looked at her in surprise.  
   "The child of Aragorn and Arwen will be my great grandson, the great nephew of Finrod Felagund. My brother would have sent the harp himself, had he lived. Of this I am certain. For he loved Mortals, and befriended many, Dwarves and Men. To know that a little of him, and some, perhaps, of his music, lived on, even now, how honoured he would be." Her breath hissed inwards for a moment, and her long fingers curled into fists. "The knowledge that you, Samwise Gamgee, bane of Shelob, and Ringbearer, who carried the Ring to the destruction of He who slew my brother, should be here now, admiring his harp, would please him more than words can say."  
   Samwise blushed and bowed again, but when he looked up his eyes were shining.

   "I cannot play the harp, alas, it is the string that draws me here. My family makes rope, my lady, and I have been learning of Hithlain from your people. I have woven this." He pulled a slender string from his pocket, it was a fair copy of the fibres used by the Elves in their weaving. "I gathered the plants, I dried the strands, and I sang the ancient weaving song as I worked." He smiled ruefully. "But the weave of the harp strings, the Tantalia, so Coirëan told me, is the finest; they cannot match the craft of old, he says, the Elves fade with time, and their Magic fades with them."  
   "Magic..." said Galadriel softly, smiling to hear the Quenya word from the guileless hobbit. Old Coirëan, who had been old when her father was young, and who seemed to think rather in music than words, had taught all the children of the House of Finwë to master their notes, and lapsed still into the language of Valinor when he forgot himself. "It is we Elves who fade, Samwise the Brave, and Finrod himself could not now craft such a harp, though his skill would be no less. Only the Twice-Born Glorfindel has yet the strength of old, and his skills are not those of the crafter. But do not fear to touch the gilded harp, it will take no hurt from your kindly hands."  
  
   Samwise bowed again and Eowyn smiled; the abashed halfling seemed to prefer to bow than to speak, but given her own awe of the lady Galadriel, she understood his shyness.  
   "Oh Samwise ! If it is craft that you would admire, then study this mirror, though treat it with the care you would a cobweb. For this mirror was crafted by a Dwarf, with no Magic other than her unrivalled skill." She gestured to the Mirror of Belegost, and watched the face of Galadriel as Samwise exclaimed over the willow leaves of beryl, and the mithril of the mirror.  
   But Galadriel was as serene and unreadable as a mirror herself, still as stone, patient as only the Eldar could be.

   Samwise put down the mirror and looked up at shining Galadriel.  
   "The Dwarves are marvellous folk for crafting, my lady Galadriel, and this mirror would fool anyone, it looks so like a sprig of willow ! But the Magic of the Elves is something more, something I can’t even imagine, something I would not believe if I had not seen it with my own eyes. The Mirror of Belegost is beautiful, my lady, but it is a toy, a trinket, compared to the wonder of the Mirror of Galadriel."

 

 

 


End file.
